


The Volunteer Tomato

by BBJ_3



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Time Shenanigans, time loops, volunteer tomato
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 14:22:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13660815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BBJ_3/pseuds/BBJ_3
Summary: Martin has met forty different Quentin Coldwaters. Finding out the first was the last meant waiting, but with the whole of Fillory before him, Martin had time.





	The Volunteer Tomato

Quentin Coldwater - the Fool. He'd known and spoken when no one else would. Not in time to change anything. Not in a way that changed anything, but he'd tried. Better than most really. Because of this, the first Quentin Coldwater - by Jane's reckoning - got the furthest on sentiment alone. It had been an utter disappointment when they'd met, but when the second came around, Martin realized what Jane had done. Time loops - spinning and spanning and seemingly never ending. How fun.

Of course, by the fifth Quentin Coldwater, the act had grown tiresome. The others changed, but certain elements remained. More often than not, Alice or Julia or even Elliot would be given the lead because every single time they entered, the High King was never Quentin, and the boy was at least self-aware enough to grasp his magical mediocrity. Quentin did his best work when wrecked with agony. Clever - but not as clever as Alice. Determined - but not as ruthless in his pursuit as Julia.

When present, Elliot would always be High King. Fillory needed a farmer after all. Elliot knew what Fillory's people needed their king to know. If Elliot were present, he'd always make the second king Quentin. No questions asked even if they'd recently fought, broken up, or had never spoken before fumbling into the quest to kill the Beast. In the rare times when Elliot wasn't present, any other male besides Quentin would be king - and there was always another male. If there were two other males, more likely than not, Quentin wouldn't be king at all. 

Mix that with his consistently realistic outlook on his own grim life pre-Brakebills and his emotional nature, and Quentin couldn't possibly think he was the 'hero' of the story. Perhaps that's why he kept coming. He did, in the end, take on one role consistently. If Ember needed to grant favor on anyone, it was always Quentin. Because Quentin's love and faith in Fillory mattered most to the god that faith empowered. As a result, Quentin was the one who decided who the 'hero' would be. When Julia was there, he'd pick her. Sentiment. Always sentiment. When she wasn't but Alice was, it would be her. One time, Elliot had become impatient as Quentin debated and took on the role to disastrous results. Not that any of the others did better. 

By the thirteenth time, Quentin became interesting again. He just kept showing up. A diverse cast would be leading the way - because even when he thought he knew the most, Quentin tripped over his own tongue that anyone else would take the reins from him in an instant. Julia was the next most often. After her second absence in the eighth time loop - solidly cementing Quentin as the only constant in Jane's loops (despite what Martin suspected were her best effort to field other talent), Martin had killed the rest and paused. Quentin #8 had cowered in defeat.

When Julia didn't come, she was dead. Everyone else often had other reasons. Not in the right place at the right time. Happy elsewhere and Quentin didn't want to ruin that for them. Julia came if she could. Always. But as the Quentins added up, so did Julia's deaths. Sometimes brought by arrogance. Sometimes by desperation and self-sacrifice. Often Julia suffered like Quentin - the need to be purposeful. However, Julia accepted other purposes beyond Fillory. Her life had meaning when she loved someone, was loved, had magic and didn't need to be the best (because she was better than Quentin and nobody could possibly beat Alice - except the times she did and finally admitted she wanted to be better than everyone in magic). While Quentin quietly followed - taking risks when guided to do so - Julia leapt at them in a dangerous way. She didn't ask enough questions. When trouble knocked, she was the one who opened the door before questioning if that was a good idea. Julia Wicker was brave. She reminded Martin of Jane. Chosen - by her own choice. Caring to a point but incapable - or unwilling - to see the true depth of the damage of her wake. Until she had no choice.

But that wasn't Julia Wicker - no, that was the Witch. Powerful, awake, having struggled for every drop for the first time in her adult life. Her ruthlessness and bravery worked with her intelligence and honed her into a magnificent being, but...she broke. Understandable. Quentin had broken when he clawed against normalcy and couldn't stay afloat. Where Quentin imploded, Julia exploded. And that was fine. Even when she tried to catch Martin in the crossfires, she failed miserably. But - again - none of the others did better.

So, after twenty-six Quentin Coldwaters, Martin decided to have fun with number twenty-seven. The time loop didn't reset with anything in particular. Jane varied in the time it took her to realize she'd failed, but after so many times, she'd formed a useful link to Quentin, and perhaps - her little volunteer tomato being alive would give her hope enough to wait. Quentin sat on the edge of a grand bed - utterly confused. In loose white pajamas, he drummed his fingers on his thighs. His hair fell over his one eye.

"I'm sure you're wondering why you're alive," Martin proclaimed, dancing about the room as he poured himself a drink. "I have someone I think you'd like to meet, and I'm curious about how you'll react."

Quentin said nothing. He bit his lip, studied the floor, and a strange urged brewed in Martin's heart. He hadn't felt that since the first Quentin - the Fool - reached out and made his knowing plea - promise - confession. That Quentin knew and it wasn't Martin's fault. Funny - Fillory always seemed to think it was. Still, #27 hardly needed to be bothered with that. His reaction to what came next would determine the length of his life. Fire and agony brought Plover into the room, and Quentin's eyes widened.

"Oh my god," he whispered. "That's Christopher Plover."

Tilting his head, Martin watched Plover choke. "Yes, it is."

"But..." and eyes darted back to Martin - to the moths blocking his face. Perhaps the boy knew after all. The previous loops showed the knowledge wasn't a certainty, but maybe... "You...why would you capture him?"

Blood, gore, a sip of a burning drink and all were dead - loop reset. Pity. #31 knew. Yelled at Martin, calling him Plover, and oh, that boy didn't realize what he'd done. A little two-step, stuck the rest in his dungeon in case Jane realized what he was doing, and #31 was in gasping for breath. Nothing but magic touched him. Martin watched, curious and cautious for the first time in a very long time. Hands clawed at sheets as invisible touches tore him apart - in the most euphoric ways. Similar touches had brought Martin misery, and watching Quentin fall victim to them left him with mixed feelings. Quentin hadn't fought. When Martin showed him his face - when Quentin realized the truth...the boy had apologized. He thought Martin was protecting himself - which he was. A few words here and there, and the young man fell into his bed willingly. Probably thought his friends had happily gone elsewhere. #31 thought Martin was precious, lonely, in need of control when everything else hadn't been. A single night was fine. Jane would reset the time loop likely any moment, and Martin had no intention of being caught unguarded when that moment came.

"Please!" Quentin begged. His spine arched almost unnaturally. A flush crawled along his pale skin. "Martin?"

And the reset came. Pity. It would have been fun to tear that last one apart slowly. Watch him descend into grief and self-loathing. Quentin Coldwater was surprisingly malleable. #36 had all of #31's self-righteousness fury but in a calmer way - subdued by a forehand knowledge of the Beast being Martin and Julia's death in a rather foolhardy attempt to mimic the disaster Quentin had wrought during his agony over his father's illness. Either way - the change being Jane's honesty in this round hardly helped her, but the lack of pity in Quentin's eyes made his folding all the better. If Jane wanted a stoic hero, it wasn't Quentin. He wore his heart on his sleeve and his mind as open as the air. Beautiful in his strange, naive optimism not in the world being good but in the futility of pretending anyone thought his thoughts worth listening to if they weren't readily available.

Perhaps that's what bothered Penny most. Not the horrid songs but the background - the desperation to be more mixed with the grim certainty of his own worthlessness. A match trying to light a black hole. But what did Quentin Coldwater even know of pain? _Nothing._

Those meant to love him tried. Dismissiveness hardly measured on Martin’s scale. Jane had dismissed him. Ignored his terror, but she was one in a line of paper thin shields against every other horror. One didn’t expect a paper doll to stop a house fire, and her death would come from her acts as the Watcherwoman more than her ignorant years as Jane Chatwin.

Sitting in a nosy, happy hall – Martin closed his eyes. Children’s laughter – such a precious sound. No one silenced them. No one shushed them, grabbed them, or drugged them. A wreck of joy –safe and sound. Secure and loved – beautiful. And amidst the joy, Quentin Coldwater sat. His eyes darted as if expecting to be attacked or have to dive between the children and the Beast.

“I envy them,” Martin informed him. “Not fault them.” Squirting a smile of ketchup on his pizza, he smiled. “I like knowing where the predators are in the room – just like you. But…I’m not the sort of predator whose food chain is so empty as to need to hunt outside my preferred prey. You’re alive after all.”

“Why?” Quentin #36 asked. “Not that I don’t…” unfinished because Quentin didn’t appreciate what he didn’t understand. “Why are we here?” the young man asked instead as if one answer was more likely than the other.

“Does it matter?” It didn’t. “We’re in a time loop. My sister will soon reset, and I enjoy this version of you enough to test it a bit more. After all –you’ll be somewhat different next time.” Martin smiled – a shark in the cut of his teeth. “Would you prefer I go after my sister in hopes of killing her before she restarts the game?”

“Fillory abandoned you when you needed it most. That’s why you’re draining it – or – part – I mean…you need the power to feel safe, but why’d you wait to kill Plover? Why torture him? You don’t feel safe…you’re stuck? Aren’t you?” Quentin shook his head. The point curled in an orbit around his head. Inside, the gears slowly turned. He’d arrive eventually, but time wasn’t a commodity they had time to waste.

“As proof,” Martin prompted.

Brows furrowed as Quentin pursed his lips. “Proof?”

“You’re 36 – at least once before, he was useful in proving my…” Martin narrowed his eyes, debating the right term. “Redeemability? You were a bit less unforgiving.”

“Had you murdered Penny and Alice in front of me?”

“Yes, I had.”

Quentin’s shoulders drooped. “Oh.”

“Indeed.”

“And why exactly do you want me to think you’re redeemable?”

Martin chuckled between bites. “I rather enjoyed fucking you.”

Down went the jaw. Wide went the eyes, and wasn’t that just a beautiful last image of Quentin #36. None of the others got close until – the Fool. #40 – the final Quentin Coldwater. Preparations had to be made. Sacrifices – his fingers, moths – even Fillory in the end. All narrowed down to one act of irreconcilable stupidity. Alice exploded, and so did he, but she was already gone, and he was back. Beautiful, stupid Quentin went after the questing beast, and the White Lady granted – but didn’t, and time dragged and dragged, pretending to be what Martin wasn’t – a woman who loved and hated Quentin in horrible turns. A niffin – Alice Quinn. It’s simple enough. Frustrating enough – an hour with Quentin’s body. Oh the fun that he could’ve had, but Martin hadn’t. He wanted permission – not the coerced, strange twisted lie that allowed him in the other man’s head. Real, living – and then there they were.

Quentin – The Fool – opened his eyes, hoping to see her, and instead saw a young man with dark hair and light eyes. The man who Martin Chatwin never truly became. Five fingers to his hands. Humanity aching in his soul.

The first kiss – strange. Beautiful. A bit of a wet fish, but really – Martin hadn’t expected Quentin to be happy to see him. Lack of resistance was better than outright disgust. Pulling back, Martin smiled when a hand dug into his hair and drew him back. Quentin’s anger, grief, and the smashed disaster of his hopes – tasted like being a god again. Fingers brushed along the sharp angles and pale skin of Quentin’s body. Agonized and cold and then blazing and open. Grabbing, holding, beautiful – desperate, mediocre, amazing Quentin Coldwater fell to pieces at the hands of the abandoned – by his family, by Fillory, by everyone – Martin Chatwin.

Exhausted, Quentin fell asleep. Martin curled around him, an arm draped possessively over the younger’s thin waist. Perhaps this one – the original and yet #40 – would fall to pieces in the morning. He would scream about how Martin lied – how Martin wasn’t Alice. That would be fine. There were no time loops, and Martin couldn’t manage enough to be a niffin. He wasn’t made for such. His self-sacrifices had been paid. Burrowing into the warmth of Quentin’s shoulder, Martin smiled against his false skin, drumming his fingers against the wood – a silly little tune until he lured himself to sleep.


End file.
